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The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations Preface

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1779: J. King and C. Ryskamp (eds.) ‘<strong>The</strong> Letters and Prose Writings <strong>of</strong> William Cowper’ vol. 1 (1979) p.<br />

308<br />

Our severest winter, commonly called the spring.<br />

Letter to the Revd William Unwin, 8 June 1783, in J. King and C. Ryskamp (eds.) ‘<strong>The</strong> Letters and Prose<br />

Writings <strong>of</strong> William Cowper’ vol. 2 (1981) p. 139<br />

Mr Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed<br />

likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted<br />

gentleman.<br />

Letter to the Revd John Newton, 29 March 1784, in J. King and C. Ryskamp (eds.) ‘<strong>The</strong> Letters and Prose<br />

Writings <strong>of</strong> William Cowper’ vol. 2 (1981) p. 229<br />

3.191 George Crabbe 1754-1832<br />

‘What is a church?’—Our honest sexton tells,<br />

‘’Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells.’<br />

‘<strong>The</strong> Borough’ (1810) Letter 2 ‘<strong>The</strong> Church’ l. 11<br />

Virtues neglected then, adored become,<br />

And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.<br />

‘<strong>The</strong> Borough’ (1810) Letter 2 ‘<strong>The</strong> Church’ l. 133<br />

Ye Lilies male! think (as your tea you sip,<br />

While the Town small-talk flows from lip to lip;<br />

Intrigues half-gathered, conversation-scraps,<br />

Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps,)<br />

If the vast World may not some scene produce,<br />

Some state where your small talents might have use.<br />

‘<strong>The</strong> Borough’ (1810) Letter 3 ‘<strong>The</strong> Vicar’ l. 69<br />

Habit with him was all the test <strong>of</strong> truth,<br />

‘It must be right: I’ve done it from my youth.’<br />

‘<strong>The</strong> Borough’ (1810) Letter 3 ‘<strong>The</strong> Vicar’ l. 138<br />

<strong>The</strong>re anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,<br />

<strong>The</strong>re hang his head, and view the lazy tide<br />

In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;<br />

Where the small eels that left the deeper way<br />

For the warm shore, within the shallows play;<br />

Where gaping mussels, left upon the mud,<br />

Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood;—<br />

Here dull and hopeless he’d lie down and trace<br />

How sidelong crabs had scrawled their crooked race...<br />

He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,<br />

And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;<br />

Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,<br />

Ran with a dull, unvaried, sad’ning sound;

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